


don't build hope on something broken

by blackfirewolf



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood and Injury, Fire, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possession, Set somewhere in S5, Stream of Consciousness, discussion of burning a person to death, mostly just a lot of crying, no character death (yet), tw warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfirewolf/pseuds/blackfirewolf
Summary: "The thing was, Jon knew he was going to die."-----------Or, the Beholding doesn't like Jon's plan to save the world.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85





	don't build hope on something broken

**Author's Note:**

> little smth i started awhile back and i wanted to post before 177 comes out. basically i've been thinking about a lot of the burning imagery in s5 and jon being called the archive and possession tropes and anyway, [i made a post here if you want context](https://blackfirewolf.tumblr.com/post/628100885144289280/thinking-about-the-strong-burn-the-archive). hope y'all enjoy <3
> 
> title from burned out by dodie, which is on my jm playlist.
> 
> BIG TW WARNINGS for fire/burning.

The thing was, Jon knew he was going to die. Martin did, too—or perhaps he had buried it under everything else he suppressed. But on some level… he definitely knew the truth. It wasn’t a hard puzzle to put together, after all, and Martin was far from stupid, despite what Jon had originally thought when they’d first started working together.

He regretted that—all the snipes and jabs, the way he’d used Martin as an outlet for all his own stress and fear without sparing a moment to think of how similar they were in their insecurities. He’d certainly paid twice over to acknowledge what was right in front of him the whole time.

But the thing was, Jon had known. Not Known with a capital K, but known like a gut feeling, that squirmed like maggots in his intestines. He’d known it as soon as Jonah Magnus’s voice had spilled from his own throat, a continuous and poisonous stream that flowed like liquid past his lips even as his scarred, shaky hands clawed at his neck, desperate to choke or rip or do literally _anything_ that would stop it.

He had known that the Archive needed to burn—and he was the Archive, now.

Jon figured he’d lost most—if not all—of his humanity in the apocalypse, yet he found it still hurt to watch Martin cry. The Eye drank it in, of course, and he doubted he’d be able to physically look away, but for the first time since the sky had opened and fear had replaced it, it did not feel Right.

He wanted to ask him. Wanted to whisper _please, Martin, you’re the only one I trust_. But he bit his lip and restrained himself at the last moment. He didn’t want to accidentally compel him—not for this. This had to be Martin’s choice, something he could maybe one day forgive himself for, if Jon played his cards right.

Martin’s hands were sweaty and heated when he clasped Jon’s palms in his. Silent tears continued to streak down his face, tracing lines through the ash and blood that had sunk into his skin, and despite how messy and horrible it seemed, Jon still wanted more than anything to kiss him. Just a gentle press on the lips, maybe. Or a caress along his jawline, settling with their foreheads leaning together, sharing the same air and not being afraid to breath in. If he did that, though, he might never get the courage to do what needed to be done.

“Ok,” Martin whispered. He’d already said that, twice over, but Jon did not rush him. It did not matter that they were hunkered down in what might have once been a broom closet. It did not matter that Things clawed and howled and promised a fate worth than death just outside. It did not matter that all their other plans to try and save the world—that Jon had destroyed in the first place—had failed, and now they only had one plan left at their disposal. All that mattered, as Jon swept his thumb over the soft line of Martin’s cheek, was that they had tried.

“It’ll be fine,” Jon lied. He kept his voice low, although he knew it wasn’t necessary. The Things knew were they were. The Institute certainly Knew where they were, cowering in one of its corners, because the Eye always Knew. But Martin… he deserved some softness before this end.

“I know,” Martin said back, but his hands just clutched him tighter. “I—you’ll get through this. I know you can.”

Once upon a time, Elias had told them that killing him would kill the whole Institute—and Jon believed that it would certainly hurt to sever that tie, the beating heart of the Magnus Institute. But there was hardly anyone left for that to be a concern. Certainly none of the regular employees were still alive. The others were not close enough to the Eye to be affected. Martin, maybe, would feel it—but Jon was confident that the Lonely’s influence would protect him from the worse of it.

They couldn’t kill Elias, but they could burn his Archive—his crown jewel—and that would have to be enough to undo everything.

“Ok,” Martin whispered again, and Jon kissed him, then. As far as last actions went, it probably wasn’t ideal; it tasted like ash and salt, and Martin whimpered halfway through, desperately holding in sobs, and he felt their teeth clack together in a way that was jarring and unpleasant.

It was perfect, anyway.

“Thank you,” Jon said. Martin made a choked noise, but accepted the lighter pressed into his hands. His eyes had a fever glint when they caught what little light could seep into their hiding place, and Jon drank it in, reading the determination and hope etched into his expression. It was a look that said, _I believe you will survive this because there is no other alternative_ , and Jon ached in a way that was equal parts amusement and grief. It was just like Martin to hope, to stubbornly cling to the belief that Jon could be saved. And maybe it wasn’t right, but Jon could not utter the truth—that he’d passed the point of being saved long, long ago. 

Ironic, really—the Archivist finally finding one secret to tuck away rather than expose.

Jon exhaled, pressing his nose into the crook of Martin’s neck one last time before drawing away. He kept his eyes open as Martin wavered at the touch, finally ducking his own head down when it became clear Jon wasn’t going to lean into him again, and from this angle, the only thing Jon could see was the pale locks of his hair falling into his face, his fingers clumsily clicking the lighter until a flame leapt up between them.

…Something shifted in Jon’s head.

* * *

The Archive Knew. It understood the bare bones of desperation, the sweet tinge of fear like the last dredges of honey in a cup of tea. It could rip the truth from recoiling minds and cause people to vomit their innermost secrets at the curve of a syllable. It was a product of the Beholding, the Eye, the Ceaseless Watcher. And it was endlessly hungry for more.

At one time, it mused, the man before him could have easily overpowered it. He was large and broad, and probably had nearly double the weight on the Archive’s vessel. But that was no matter, now. The Archive could freeze him with barely a look, could paralyze his every muscle and bone with one commanding word—which it had.

The man had very wide eyes and his lips were trembling. Grasped in his hands was the lighter, adorned in web patterns and sweat. The Archive did not Feel, but the sight of it caused something to stir within it—something suspiciously like fear.

But that did not matter. What mattered was the man under its control. The man that had so many sweet secrets under his tongue, numerous statements waiting to be taken and catalogued. The Archive did not Feel, but it knew hunger, and it knew satisfaction, and it knew voyeuristic delight.

“Jon,” the man choked out.

“Silence,” it commanded.

The man’s lips slammed shut, but his eyes were wide, pleading. As the Archive took a moment to observe him, it registered the name he had spoken. It nudged at something deep, deep within it, but it hardly mattered at that moment. What mattered was letting the Eye pour forth, tearing its way into the man’s mind.

Oh, he was wonderful. Positively brimming with fear and helplessness and despair. Carefully, the Archive stroked along the surface of his mind, colourful flashes of memory flaring to life as the Beholding turned its gaze upon them.

A young boy—hardly more than a child—staring out a window, knowing deep in his gut that his father would not be returning. The sharp, cutting words of a woman with pale, sunken skin—oh yes, she was in quite a few memories. The burn of her eyes followed him through his youth, growing more and more angry and disgusted as the years passed, shaping him into something small, something insignificant, something pathetic and weak. There was the curdling terror of not being enough, of staring down at the pile of bills and rechecking the numbers, recounting the figures, reorganizing the essentials, and then pushing and pushing and taking a third backbreaking job, only to have to decide between rent and dinner for the week anyway, and still, she was never satisfied. She’d been miserable under his care, no matter how hard he tried to make her comfortable, but she’d been just as disgusted with the abysmal placement he’d managed to afford. Ah, and yet he’d loved her, like a good son—had loved her even when her true feelings, the hatred she felt looking at him, had been forced into his head.

The man made a low keening sound and the Archive pushed at that memory, drinking in the terror he’d felt: fear that he wouldn’t be able to carry out his plan, that he would fail his friends, that in the end it wouldn’t matter because they were heading into what was essentially a suicide-mission, and he’d be left all alone (and he had been, swallowed and smothered by a numbing fog that let him believe he was nothing, that it was better to fade than feel).

He was clutching the same lighter that he’d used in that memory. He’d cried, noisy and breathless in a way that betrayed gut-wrenching grief, vastly different to the silent seep of tears down his cheeks now. The air had been thick and cloying with the scent of burning paper.

No, the Archive didn’t like that—even just the memory of destroyed information made it hurt, in the only way it knew how to hurt.

It dug its tendrils in deeper, ignoring the moans of the man, the way he was trying to twist away in the limited space he had, and it reveled in the quickening flashes of memory. The blur of grief and guilt, of switching on the news and seeing the flaming wreckage of a wax museum, the fresh plot of turned earth, holding the hand of the man he loved and begging him to _please, please, wake up_ —

Something stirred again. The Archive actually paused this time, baffled by the sense of urgency the feeling had.

A pause was all that was needed.

To the Archive’s surprise, the man suddenly pushed more memories towards it, rather than fighting the invasion of his mind. All of them centered around the same thing: an unassuming, often scowling man.

There was the image of him, the curve of his mouth irritated and dismissive as he spat out quick, snappish critiques. There he was slumped over a desk, too focused on his work to acknowledge the man’s existence. There he was, wild-eyed and riddled with scars, ruffling through the man’s desk and hovering beneath a streetlamp, a lit cigarette hanging from his fingers as he twitched and watched things out of the corner of his eyes like he was about to be ambushed.

And there he was in a different light, his voice softened as he said the man’s name, _Martin, Martin, Martin_ , accent blurring the _r_ into an awed, almost non-existent sound: reassuring him of small things, thanking him for a cup of tea, sitting across from him at the café and gesturing animatedly as he ranted about whatever topic they’d stumbled upon, asking him to run and escape with him, calling him from the Lonely’s embrace with nothing but his unwavering stubbornness and desperation. There he was in small fragments, gaining in speed and strength—hands wrapped together while the Scottish flatlands flew past their train window, the sleepy warmth of bodies pressed sidelong to each other, the dawn bathing their room in faded orange light, the casual bump of hips while navigating around each other in the kitchen, the gentle touch of fingers combing through hair while the rain pounded outside and fire cackled in its hearth. His voice, stumbling and small and no longer sharp, as it apologized for past indiscretions, his gaze too strong but also relentlessly sincere. Not just acknowledging the man, but looking at him like he was the _entire world_. Memories that were void of fear, unwavering in their feelings of safety and comfort, even as the Archive struggled to free itself from them.

(The caress of a hand against his cheek, one final kiss tasting of blood and ash.)

The Archive looked into the man’s— _Martin’s_ —eyes and they were still wide, but they were not afraid, anymore. They were determined, fierce, his entire body straining against the Archive’s command for silence, his lips trembling and his hands clenched into fists where they remained caged at his sides, and through his eyes alone, the Archive saw unrelenting love.

Deep down, the feelings swelled, and the Archive realized it was the vessel, latching onto the memories. It knew not just hunger, satisfaction, voyeuristic delight—it had also known paralyzing terror, fond amusement, tired resignation, aching hurt, and above all, it had known love.

Its name was—(Martin cupping his cheeks, kneeling in glass as the world unraveled at the seams, whispering)— _Jon_.

Like coming up for air, Jon heaved a gasp into his lungs. The pressure in his head was beyond anything he could describe. It surpassed being a prisoner in his own body, of opening the door and drowning from what came through the other side.

It was an oppressive force that had smothered almost everything that remained of him—and he had snatched back only one, precious second of control.

“Martin,” he gasped again, and it felt like his chest was full of mud. His limbs shook uncontrollably. His eyes must have been glowing, because Martin’s face was illuminated—shiny tear-tracks down his cheeks, freckles scrunched up with his suppressed sobs, skin drained of all colour. “Y-you, you…”

He could barely speak. The pressure in his head grew stronger, that part of him that wasn’t human anymore fighting for control, to be the forefront of this vessel for the Beholding. Jon wasn’t strong enough to fight it. He was nothing but skin and scars beaten into submission, a speck of humanity against an ocean hunger to consume.

With all the remaining strength and self-control he had, Jon jerked his hand forward and clutched Martin’s wrist, still holding the lighter, and poured all the compulsion he could into the command, “ _Do it_.”

 _Click, whirr_. A flame caught, hovering just beneath his sleeve. Martin’s hand became iron locking his wrists into place. For a moment, he saw the doubt in his eyes. The skepticism, that a simple lighter could do sufficient damage to flesh.

(Jon was not just Jon, though. Not anymore.)

A second later, the Archive burst into flames.

* * *

The thing was, Jon knew he was going to die. It was an inevitability he’d seen coming for awhile, and he’d made relative peace with it. He regretted a lot of things and a selfish part of him wished he’d had more time to spend with Martin, but in his mind, his death was a fair trade to repair the world.

Jon had hoped that death would be painless, at least. Maybe it was ambitious, but surely if he was dead he wouldn’t feel as bad as he did—ergo, he probably wasn’t dead.

The fact that every square inch of his body was screaming with pain, however, didn’t exactly inspire relief at that realization.

He wasn’t aware of the pressure on his chest until it shifted, and then noise started to filter through the ringing in his ears—multiple people talking at once, footsteps, some distant howling that could have been wind. A voice, just overhead, repeating his name over and over. “Jon, Jon? Are you ok? God, please wake up, Jon?”

“Ow,” he said, with feeling.

Immediately, the voice he recognized as Martin’s, heaved out a sob. “ _Oh, thank Christ_.” 

Jon peeled his eyes open, wincing at the light. They weren’t hiding in a storage closet anymore; it seemed like someone had dragged him out and laid him out in the hallway, his limbs sprawled out ungracefully from his spread-eagled position. Martin was kneeling on one side of him, a hand wrapped in one of Jon’s, and on his other side…

“Basira?” Jon croaked out.

The woman rolled her eyes at him, sitting back on her heels. “Good to see you’re still alive,” she said briskly.

Jon swallowed roughly and tried to sit up, immediately wincing as the pain flared in his chest, his ribs creaking and shifting in a way that was unnatural. With a gasp, he flopped back to the floor, and Martin made a distressed sound.

“Don’t move,” he demanded, his voice wobbling but still firm. “We had to, we had—to restart your heart, Jon.”

“Might have broken a few ribs,” Basira commented.

“And, and… uh, you were on fire, so…”

Jon flexed his hand that currently wasn’t being held by Martin, biting back a groan at the pull of flesh. It wasn’t the same pinched sensation of when Jude Perry had burned him—more like someone had flayed several inches of skin off of him, leaving only a thin, outer layer behind. Raising his hand up to his eyeline, he was surprised to see no evidence of burns; his skin definitely looked a bit raw, but there was nothing that explained the absolute agony of his body, the feeling like his mind had been ripped open and scooped clean, the way he felt like a phoenix awakening from its own destruction. And speaking of…

“Am I naked?” he slurred, his voice going shrill and indecipherable at the end. He wasn’t sure how he could have missed that, considering how sensitive his flesh felt, but he was fairly sure his clothing was nothing but a few, singed rags at the moment.

“Relax,” said a new voice, and he craned his head just enough to spot Daisy. A second later, she draped a blanket over him (he had no idea where she could have possibly found it) and he equal parts relaxed at the warmth it provided and winced at the sensation of the fabric touching his bare skin. “You might be an eldritch power, but your clothes aren’t.”

Her mouth sounded like a mouth full of marbles, edged in a harsh growl that sent a shiver down his spine, but he was relieved to see only a peak of fang and fur when she bent over him.

“The, the plan…?”

Daisy snorted and Basira sighed, curt and to-the-point when she said, “Just a couple hang-ups. It’s not over yet.”

“Think you can walk?” Daisy asked, and Jon automatically nodded, even though the very concept of standing seemed foreign and distant, hanging behind a fog he could not penetrate. “Good. Martin, get him up. Me and Basira will scout ahead.”

There were splatters of blood across the linoleum, streaks of dark crimson and black goo, the heavy scent of smoke and ash hanging in the air. Martin wiped a hand over his face, smearing a streak through the soot and sweat, and Jon swallowed roughly, a black hole enveloping his stomach as he traced the tears still sliding down his face. Tears that _Jon_ had put there.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Martin whispered. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I’m sorry.”

It was a struggle to coordinate his limbs, to remember that his fingers were connected to his hand, his hand to his wrist, his wrist to his arm, his arm to his shoulder. His muscles were like static, buzzing and formless, and it seemed to take forever for his fingers to skim Martin’s cheek.

Instead of flinching, Martin leaned into it, pressing Jon’s hand to his cheek and closing his eyes as more tears started to flow down his face. Jon made a low sound in protest, but Martin ignored him, flipping the hand over so he could press a kiss so tenderly to his palm that Jon felt his very soul quiver.

“Don’t leave,” he breathed out. “Please, Jon. I thought you were gone, when the—the fire started.” He clutched his hand harder, squeezing his eyes shut as his voice broke. “It’s… it isn’t over yet, ok? I don’t w-want it to be over, yet.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered back, and Martin laughed wetly. “No, Martin, I, I, hurt you. I let myself—”

“It wasn’t you, Jon.” (It was, it was, it was—) “Not completely, at least,” he conceded.

“I think…” Jon hesitated, unwilling to deflect the blame, to say it was anything other than himself—but he remembered the pressure in his mind, the feeling of drowning, the feeling of flames licking up his arms as he was scorched and stripped of knowledge, a pain similar to burning Gerry Keay’s page except this had consumed him to his very core. “…The Beholding knew.”

Martin’s grip tightened on him. “It was trying to stop us. But it didn’t succeed.”

Jon was silent, even more unwilling to contradict his love after what he’d done. He didn’t want to tell him that Jon was still the Archive, that the Beholding lurked beneath his veins like a craving that could never be satisfied. He did not want to explain that the fire had done nothing but burn away the top layer of Jon’s inhumanness—and that most of it was now seeped so deeply into who he was, that nothing would be able to extract it.

(The human, at this point, was indistinguishable from the monster.)

“No,” Jon agreed quietly, and he didn’t try to stand, didn’t try to follow the women scouting the nightmarish hallways of what had once been the Institute, didn’t move to follow through on the rest of their plan to defeat Elias and save the world. For just that moment, he stared at Martin and swore to himself that he’d never hurt him again—even if he lost that little speck of Jon again, he would not allow the Archive to turn its gaze upon the man he loved. “You didn’t let it, did you?”

A small smile touched Martin’s lips. “Didn’t do much,” he said shakily. “Just—reminded you of some things, is all.”

“Power of love defeats an entity of fear, you’re saying.”

Martin chuckled and pressed his face into Jon’s collarbone, his spine bent awkwardly from his kneeling position. He didn’t show any signs of discomfort, however, and Jon wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, just holding him as they both exhaled unsteadily.

Clinging to each other, he could almost pretend that everything would be alright—that in the end, love would be enough to overpower fear. That their plan would work and the world would be normal again. That somehow, he would peel away the layers of himself that belonged to fear, and instead wake up each morning to Martin’s smile, the press of his hands, the taste of toothpaste, and know they were both safe.

He could almost pretend that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to burn.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu [@blackfirewolf](https://blackfirewolf.tumblr.com/)


End file.
